Lost in Translation

I've always had a not-so-secret appreciation for comedy accents. It's one of the few things I've been able to take away from my linguistics degree, apart from an understanding of the logistics of how speech sounds are conjured up in our gubs. Comes in handy when several previous part-time jobs have involved working closely with Speakers of Other Languages; one particular year spent slogging my ass off in a local Thai noodle bar included helping the chef with his English skills. I'm proud to say that Kunlawat no longer says 'suh-ponge' and 'suh-nowman', a skill which will clearly have a huge impact on his everyday quality of life.

Obviously my current dalliance with The Scotsman has opened up a new world of opportunity.

This week, we were chatting on the phone and he mentioned his boss had shuffled his job role about a bit, and that he would now be in charge of "proper A cars."

DG: "Proper-A cars?? Ooooh what are those, they sound class!!"

Scotsman: "....what?"

DG: "You're in charge of the proper-A cars section, what's a proper-A car?"

A few moments of silence pass...

Scotsman: "PROPERTY and cars, dumdum." Then he proceeded to tut several times.

I'm not going to lie; I was mildly gutted that it was just a case of miscommunication and that there was no secret elite car advertising section. So to equalise the disappointment, I got him to say 'curlywurly', and happiness was immediately restored.

You can always rely on rhotics to brighten your day :)

'A kiss is just a pleasant reminder that two heads are better than one.' - Anon

This month I have mostly been having lots of kisses with a new boy! This may not sound like much of a story, but I should fill you in with some context. After splitting from my Mr Big last Xmas, my 2010 consisted mainly of typical break-up mental anguish; a long running "will-we-or-won't-we-get-back-together" saga; a LOT of alcohol and several displays of inappropriate behaviour, including a summer spent stringing along The Artist and The Bouncer simultaneously. Not my proudest moments, but self destructive behaviour tends to be (dare I say it?) quite a lot of fun. Heck, at least I got a few amusing photo albums out of the experience.

Pat knows what she's talking about.

Anyhow, once I finished my little pity party I gave myself a little pep talk and told everyone who would listen that I was quite happy to fly solo for a while, thank you very much, and I would not be requiring the company of any males to come along and mess with my delicate little brain. So what do I do the first girly night out I have once I decide this? I somehow find myself a date. After a pretty standard DG display of peacocking, I turn around and lock eyes with The Scotsman, who appears to find my drunken body-popping skills deeply alluring. Two super-hot blind(ish) dates later, I officially have a Romeo: after months of psyching myself up for a solo Valentine's day crying into a bag of Minstrels in my jammies, I instead found myself cosied up in bed with a new man, watching a DVD and sipping chilled Pinot Grigio. Got to love life's little ironies. The Scotsman has strong arms, a lovely soft beard, eyes that laugh and an accent that makes my wibble wobble.... ahh yes, I am quite enamoured with my current crush.

I love how this relationship business plays out you know, it never ceases to amuse me. I am convinced that Jebus created the concept of love under the guise of procreation, whilst having a little laugh to himself knowing how much enjoyment He's going to get out of watching us all run around like idiots.  Trust me, I have had my fair share of long-term commitment, of future plans involving rings and babies and mortgages, of investing everything you have in another person just for it all to go to shit. You build up this beautiful and exciting tower of potential together, only for a door to slam shut somewhere, it all comes falling down around you and all that's left is two miserable people looking at each other, wondering what the hell just happened. Isn't it awful!! But the important thing to realise is that it's ALL OK. It doesn't matter how jaded someone could be, how badly they've been hurt in the past, how cynical they are about the concept of lurve; all it takes is to have a spark, a positive connection with a chance encounter, and it all goes straight out the window; you are reborn baby, and ready for action :)

Lord knows what will eventually happen with my Scotsman; it could all be over in a month, he could be the love of my life, we could end up having a few illegitimate children together and start a family folk group. Stranger things have happened, and I thrive on the delicious anticipation of waiting to see how it all pans out, not just for us, but for my life in general: it's a successful primetime soap and I'm the lead character. Drunken Grape Meets Scotsman is just this month's running storyline: my plan is to soak it all up as much as possible, before reality sets in and he realises that the seemingly laidback, fun-loving, straight-talking brunette he has been concentrating so much of his energy on is in fact just as batshit-crazy as the rest of the female population. *cue manic laughter...*

P-A-R-T-whY? 'Cause I gottaaa...!

Here is a lovely photo of me with two of my best chums.
You see we enjoyed the chocolate cake.

It's February! The greyness of January is over and we can make our official start to the New Year. I don't know about you guys but Jan is such a depressing month that my brain has reprogrammed itself to take it out of the equation. That's right kids, in my head, January doesn't really exist; the year ends on 31st December and starts again on the 1st Feb. January is reserved for grey skies, empty bank accounts, miserable faces and post-Xmas pot bellies. The one shining beacon of light in the whole month is my birthday, a day in which I crank up my diva setting to 11 and stamp around making demands like a six year old with too much sugar. I try to make amends for my irritating behaviour by throwing a kick-ass bash for my lovely social circle every year, in a desperate attempt to shake us all out of our 'Santa's gone for another year' slump.

I'm a big fan of themed parties, and am unashamed by that. I LOVE them; don't get me wrong, they are a heap of extra effort and expense to throw, and I usually have a minor breakdown at the 11th hour when some inevitable planning catastrophe occurs. My Mr Big was exceptionally skilled in the art of recognising the meltdown symptoms, and was ready with tea, calming words and a vodka chaser to settle me down again, clutching his debit card and ready to run errands to fix whatever it was had made me sit cross-legged in the middle of the lounge sobbing and snotting all over the place.
Some of my past favourites include:

• My Merry Un-Birthday: an 'Alice in Wonderland' party with playing-card banners, a giant 'EAT ME' cake, cucumber sandwiches, goblets with 'drink me' tags, red painted roses and a bin-liner 'rabbithole' all the guests had to climb through on the way into my house. I went for a casual Queen of Hearts-type outfit, and made a red t-shirt with pink hearts glued all over it, a tiara and heart print heels. Later in the evening, one of my guests came bursting into the room screaming 'SILLY STRING!!!!' and proceeded to spray a full can of heavy-duty fabric glue spray directly into my hair. It took two days to comb out.
• One Night in Tokyo: a Japanese pop-culture affair with a range of random treats from the asian supermarket, sushi, sake and Hello Kitty cupcakes. I was chuffed with the effort everyone went to; we had a Japanese tourist, a Powerpuff Girl, GoGo Yubari (from Kill Bill, complete with a spiky mace) Fook-Mi (from Austin Powers), an 'origami expert', several ninjas, geishas and harajuku lovers, and my particular favourites: The Not-So-Newlyweds who arrived in matching inflatable sumo suits, and one of my besties, who turned up wearing a painted chef's hat and a top with tiny plastic people sewn onto the shoulders. That's right, she came as Hiroshima. Fabulous.
• My Beardy B'day: the entire group of 20+ braved the knee-deep snow and hit up a local shisha lounge wearing a variety of fake beards. Mine was a white Gandalf-type affair with pretty purple flowers sewn into it to make it special. Bless.
• Requiem: my leaving party for Edinburgh. The idea was that it was a faux-funeral for 'my life in Belfast', with blown up portraits of me up everywhere, lots of lit candles, a slideshow of photos up on the projector screen; a classic wake buffet with lace doilies, triangle sandwiches and sausage rolls, and a highly potent Long Island Iced Tea in a tea urn with paper cups. All guests arrives in full funeral gear (black suits for the boys, lots of black lace for the girls). I have to say, this was an interesting experience for me; I think I successfully freaked myself out. At one point Smoky and I were in the livingroom, watching the slideshow of photos and listening to 'Dust in the Wind', when it suddenly dawned on me just how morbid this theme was and how it perhaps was not the best idea for a party I'd ever had. But then again, any party in which the hostess has to question as to whether or not she has actually died, sounds pretty successful to me.

I hope I never get too boring for theme parties; they are great fun, and a way to tap into being a 5-year old again, for one blissful evening. People are so quick these days to dismiss them; you can hear the collective groans and complaints every time there is a costume party on the cards. It's highly upsetting.

I am all too aware that the time bracket in which it is socially acceptable to shoehorn your guests into fancy dress is getting smaller by the year; suddenly it seems to be the vogue amongst my friends to have a proper job, a hubby, a couple of sprogs and a mortgage. Apparently when you have one or more of these you have become 'sensible' and are no longer required to stoop to such childish levels; well, I'm afraid that just won't do. I will be keeping a close eye on these nouveau-adults and attempting to normalise them with glitter and novelty cakes as soon as it becomes necessary.

Snow!!!!

Isn't it lovely! I bloody love the snow, it makes everything look like a Christmas card.

When I moved here and was packing away all my belongings in my new bedroom, my flatmate noticed a very large, very puffy black coat with a very furry hood hung up in my wardrobe. "You're going to need that for an Edinburgh winter" she commented, and since that moment I have been eagerly awaiting the arrival of the spectacular winter I had been promised.

And this week, it arrived. With a vengeance.

Uni has been been cancelled all week, the campus being "closed until further notice": four words which bring out the 7-year old in any adult. I spent three days in my flat watching people make igloos and frolic in the lovely snow, giddy with the novelty of snowman-making, while I was quietly smug with my steaming mugs of tea and cosy livingroom. Then suddenly, reality struck; I had run out of food. So off I toddled to Tesco, wrapped up in several scarves and two pairs of socks with some 'sensible' footwear (well, as sensible as I would allow; my eyes skimmed past the flat boots and trainers, and settled on a pair of knee-high brown leather boots. They did have a heel but they were from Clarks, so a 'sensible' heel lol).

Dear lord, I had underestimated God's sense of humour. There were snowdrifts along the edge of the street which were waist-high, the path was easily half a metre higher than usual from all the compacted snow, and I genuinely couldn't tell where the footpaths ended and the roads began. And this was in the city! Of course, my first natural reaction was not to run screaming back into the safety of my flat, but instead to scrabble for my phone and make several phone calls home to brag about the glorious weather conditions. Understandably, my lovely friends and family were exceedingly jealous with their measly 2 inches of snowfall. And especially for them, here are a little video of the view from my living-room window, just to rub more snow salt in their wounds.

Fabulous. I'm off to make a hot whisky and watch Elf, happy snowballing (or not)!